


Teal and Crimson

by roraruu



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Bonding, F/M, Roleswap AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 10:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21444982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: A wicked healer doesn’t believe in his goddess; a pious archer loathes her craft. (Roleswap AU).
Relationships: Python & Silque (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Teal and Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> me @ myself: dont post anything thats unfinished you have to work on vamp au  
my dumbass brain which needs serotonin: >:3c

Python wondered how she could handle that bow. He never could. Bowstrings too taut, targets too far, too many things to account for. It made his father disappointed when he showed a proficiency for magic instead of brute strength. Being honest, it surprised him too. And Forsyth, and his Mother, hell, the entire village. 

The only archers he’s ever seen are on horseback and wear feathers; probably prizes from the creatures they shoot down from the sky. That, or from pegasi, a warning to any sky-bound knights. They look all high and mighty atop those big horses, but he’s the wounds they get from their gaudy uniforms.

And she’s... well she’s willowy and thin and tiny, a full foot shorter than him. But she’s incredibly fast, almost like a bolt of lightning. Hell, with that hair she might as well be one. And that bow that’s always strapped to her back, it radiates something otherworldly, something not entirely human. Even stranger, he’s heard her speak to it with the cavalier that also came from Novis. The cavalier ignores it, but she doesn’t. She treats it like it’s human, a being trapped in wood and metal and sinew.

She’s a weird one that Silque. He watches as she leaps out of the way of a myrmidon, shooting them in the thigh and then the head.

Gruesome. And hot. 

Then she’s gone before his eyes. A streak of lightning gone again. That brat—Alm—pulls him back to the action.

“Go take the fortress Python!” He orders as his sword clashes with the enemy’s. He sees one of the other brats that Lukas took from the village drive his sword into the enemy’s stomach. A critical hit.

Python turns away, trying to spare himself from the rest of the scarring sight. He’s seen enough battlefield injuries for a lifetime, and he’s only been with this full army for a few days. 

But that’s the way it is: kill them before they kill you. Pity the living who have to live with it, not the dead. They have no regrets, perhaps the only that they set foot on the field and left loved ones behind.

Python takes a running start to the fortress. It’s old and wind-beaten, the brick and stone sides crumbling back into Mila’s earth. Ivy and hops grow up the wall like veins. His boots meet the steps, thundering up them. He feels the creepy, angelic-like glow surrounding the fortress. A heal tile might be close... if he’s lucky enough. He kicks around a few sacks, looking for the tell-tale sigil glowing in the ground. 

Nothing. He’s not surprised. 

“Dammit.” He mutters to himself. While Mila’s magic is eerie and creepy and draining, he wouldn’t mind a power nap without having to lay down on the cold stone ground. Heal tiles relieve the stresses and anxieties of battle, clearing his aching mind a little bit.

He’s pulled out of his humble wishes for a heal tile when some idiot lets out a battle cry. At first he assumes it’s Forsyth—the idiot had been beside him at the start of the battle. The fortress gives him a vantage point, enough to see Forsyth acting as Clive’s shield while their ex-leader retreats.

And in front of him, he sees the caller of the cry. A myrmidon runs at him, blade drawn. He scrambles backwards almost tripping over empty sacks and busted barrels of supplies. He throws one in front of the enemy, the sword getting wedged in the wood.

_ Holy fuck _ . 

He pulls out his staff, trying to summon forth Thunder but it misses. He cusses again, this time trying Fire. He misses again. 

The myrmidon manages to lift his blade from the wood and thrusts it at Python. He barely misses, slicing through his thick robe. 

He wants to cry out for help, but instead speaks the incantation again, stumbling over the words. They miss again, the heavy aura of magic beginning to give him a headache. 

“Come on, Python, you can handle this!” The commander calls. As if empty words will help him land this spell.

_ Let’s see you try to not die while tripping over supplies! _ He thinks bitterly. “I could use a hand here!” He calls, hoping that he’ll order one of the bright-eyed twerps to him. Or even Forsyth, he’ll deal with the lecture while checking himself for wounds. He doesn’t give a shit, just as long as his head isn’t rolling along the ground.

He stumbles over another overturned barrel and crashes down the steps. He hits his head, the world becoming fuzzy as he stares at the bright blue sky above. His staff rolls away.  _ Double fuck.  _ He panics, reaching for it. He’s barely got it in his hands. He turns back around, scrambling to hold the staff in front of him. The myrmidon raises his sword once again, the blade glinting in the light. Python sucks back a breath. The sword comes down hard on the wood, almost splintering it in two.

“For Mila’s sake, someone help me!” He barks out as the myrmidon pulls the blade away and tries to rip the staff from his hand. He shuts his eyes tight, too weak to try and summon forth black magic again. In a last ditch effort, Python murmurs a prayer to the goddess he doesn’t believe in, asking for her to save him. 

The sword comes down and patters almost soundlessly against the tile ground. He sees one, two, three silver bows straight through the heart as the myrmidon falls to the ground and bleeds out. The sage’s eyes grow wide as he looks around for the bow that the arrows came from. 

Quickly, the little archer runs up the steps to the fortress. Silque sets her foot on the now-dead myrmidon’s stomach and forces the arrows from his body. Python has to fight a gag. She inspects them for a moment and flicks away the blood quickly before throwing them back into her quiver. “Are you all right?” She asks. 

It takes a moment for him to process that he’s still alive.Mila almighty, he’s still alive, thanks to her. Slowly he nods, sitting up. Her teal robes are smeared with crimson—blood. It doesn’t look right on her.

He sees her gloved hand reach out to him. She offers a thin-lipped smile, a gentle comfort; it’s hard to feel safe around a tiny archer covered with blood. He takes her outstretched hand and she pulls him back up with nothing more than a soft grimace. Gods, she’s strong.

“Sorry I came at the last second.” She says, fingers moving like dominos along her bow handle.

He barely mutters a thanks before she turns on her heel, blue hair swaying like a curtain. “You’re welcome. Now try to pay more attention.” She says. “And maybe stay close to me for the rest of the battle. I’ll watch over you.”

He feels a rush of heat. She would watch over  _ him _ ? Didn’t that cavalier warn her? Or was this a kindness out of necessity.

“Faye has an injury. I’ll give her the signal to come over.” Silque says. She looks to him for an answer and for a moment he’s lost in grey eyes. “Sir Python?”

He snaps back and nods. “Yeah, send her over.” He says as she offers another smile and pulls the teal bow off her back and runs towards the front lines. 

* * *

Python sees Silque chattering with the cavalier at the fire one night. They tend to it while the others sit on the war council and argue over meaningless things. Meanwhile, he’s stuck in the infirmary staring at grotesque wounds until he calls it quits.

Also drinking. He likes to do that when it’s quieted down. 

He leaves the infirmary to get a fresh pail of water, passing by the fire pit once again. It’s just the little cavalier staring into the flickering flames. 

“Hey.” He calls, her eyes looking up. “Where’s your friend?”

She shoots brown daggers at him. “Why do you want to know where Silque is?” She asks, then her voice takes a more warning tone. “You should stay away from her.”

“I’m not going to—“

Her gaze narrows. “I don’t trust you, Python.” She spits his name. Great, another admirer, this time one who sticks around. Gods. Majority of the time women would look at him with disgust after seeing his lecherous ways. He’s barely said a word to this girl, but she’s already spitting venom at him. “Silque is dear to me. If you know what’s best you’ll leave her alone.”

“I was just gonna ask about the goddamn bow, by the Mother.” He hisses.

Faye’s eyes widen a little as she grasps her weapon tighter. “Leave her bow alone too.” She orders firmly. “Stay far from her.”

“I heard you the first time.” He barks. He shakes his head, hearing her not-so-quietly mumble curses about how she couldn’t believe him. 

What’s so special about her anyways? She’s just an archer from Novis, no more special than the kid from Ram who fires arrows too. His hand curls tighter around the bucket as he walks towards the stream. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s arrogance. It's worse when it comes from nobles, but Gods, women can have a self-important streak that runs for miles. That girl has a thick streak and it’s not even for herself! 

_ Maybe they’re...  _ He thinks of how he fumbled to heal Silque upon their first meeting and the cavalier almost screamed bloody murder at him. And come to think of it, the cavalier only stuck around Silque, not venturing far from her side although there is some connection to the village boys.

Ugh. Too many thoughts, not enough alcohol. The sooner he gets fresh water, the sooner he can go close up the infirmary and sip from his flask unbothered. He hears the water trickling downstream and kneels to the ground. 

He hears footsteps against the dry grass behind him. He drops the handle of his bucket, beginning to fumble for black magic incantations. Then he sees her seraph-like face, something hiding behind her simper. 

“Oh, Sir Python.” Her voice is soft and sweet. She’s got a few twigs in her arms, kindling for a fire. The bow is on her back And her uniform is clean again, no trace of crimson blood on the skirts or sleeves. “Good evening.”

“Hey.” He says, black magic dissipating in the air. He reaches for the bucket, drawing through the stream. He pulls it back up, heavy with the weight of the water. 

“Gathering water?”

“What else do you do by a river?” He asks. Her simper fades a little.

“Well I suppose you could have been bathing.”

“Would’ve walked way farther upstream.” 

“Or fishing.”

“Water’s too shallow. Not even deep enough for minnows.”

Silque brushes past him, gazing into the little stream. Her lips purse for a moment before she shrugs. “Or you could’ve come to the stream to pray.” She says. “I’ve heard the Temple of Mila is built around an aqueduct. The waters of Rigel meet Zofia and bless our lands that way.”

He’s never heard of that before. Then again, he likes to stay far away from Mila and her tenets and ideals and Faithfuls. They’re an earache that doesn’t ever stop, their words haunting him even in his sleep.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the Temple in all its glory.” He laughs bitterly. Silque straightens up, fingers pressing against the kindling. Her brow furrows. “Why do you laugh?”

“I’ve never been farther than the Zofian Plains. Besides, Mila’s crept up on her throne and refuses to leave. Why would I offer anything to a goddess who doesn’t give two shits about me?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels a wash of heat over his face.

“Oh. I see you do not... value the Earth Mother that much.” Her voice drops a little.

“And I’m guessin’ you think she’s a God among men?”

“Yes. She is, in fact. Without her we’d all have starved long ago.” She says, grey eyes boring into his. “And she’s always been quite kind to me in my travels. In fact my bow—“

She stops abruptly. Her head turns back to stream. 

“Your bow?”

Her brow furrows a little further. Then she plays dumb. “I’m sorry what?”

“Your bow. You were saying something about it.” He presses. The bucket grows heavy in his hand. “And frankly I’m interested to know more. It looks real weird. Like it doesn’t belong here.”

She lets a little sigh escape her lips. “Faye will wonder where I am. Excuse me.” 

Faye. That must be her name. “She said to stay far from you.” He says, leaning a little closer. 

He expects her to back away but she simply presses her lips together and clutches the handful of kindling tighter. Her eyes widen. “Faye said that?” She asks.

“Yep.” 

Her brow furrows for a moment. “Gods, what will I do with that girl...” she murmurs to herself. She turns to him. “All you need to know is that it’s important.”

“Reason why it’s with you day and night.” He says.

Silque nods. “I’d rather perish than be without it.”

Heavy words for a weapon. It’s bound to break with time, right? Nothing lasts forever, especially not something as simple as a bow.

“Is it holy or something?”

“Wouldn’t you sense that? You’re a sage after all.” She shoots.

“I’m not so holy myself.” 

Her fingers turn white against the kindling. She frowns, eyeing him cautiously. “You promise not to tell anyone?” She asks with wide eyes.

“Only my closest friends.” He says, watching her gaze narrow. “I’m kidding, just give me something on that bow.”

She cracks, setting the kindling on the ground and pulling the bow off her back she takes a step closer. He sets the bucket of water down on the ground. She holds the bow out before him. “It’s called the Mila Bow. Legend says she wielded it before leaving the Divine Dragon Tribe.” She lets him take another look at it before drawing an arrow from her ever-ready quiver. She raises her bow, sliding an arrow along the notch. His eyes widen as she begins to pull back.

“H-Hey Silque, chill out okay?” He says, fighting fear. “It was just a joke.”

The archer simply stares ahead, grey gaze focused on him before letting the arrow fly. It narrowly misses the cowl of his cape and flies through the air, pinning a flimsy branch to the heart of the tree. The wood splinters as she lowers the bow. His gaze flickers between the two. He’s almost breathless, scared but intrigued by not only the bow but her. 

“It’s blessed by the Mother with impeccable aim and strength.” She explains. “It has been Novis’s pride for years.”

Python simply stares at her. “Why do you have it?” He doesn’t mean it to sound so bitter or coarse, but comes out as such. 

Yet Silque is kind and turns her gaze back to the bow in her hand. “I do not know why either.” She says softly. It’s a backhanded statement, any normal girl would be pissed at him or trying to backhand him. But instead she strings the bow to her back and picks up her pile of kindling. She pulls the arrow from the tree and glances back to him. “Good night, Sir Python.” 

* * *

The next time Python sees Silque it’s in the prayer tent. No one uses it that often. Or at least, not anyone he cares about. It’s his job—delegated, not by choice—to look after the tent. He usually sets it up haphazardly and lets those who use it clean it up. He doesn’t care all that much. 

He pushes back the tent flap and steps in. Silque’s kneeling on the ground, head bowed down piously, her hands clasped together as she shares thoughts only with the Mother. That damn bow is still on her back.

The altar is lit with tapered candles and he can see another statuette beside the carving of Mila. Her brother, Duma. It sets a chill down his spine. He doesn’t get along with Mila and by the Gods, Duma scares the hell out of him. Before he can stop himself, he speaks.

“Why are you praying to that thing?” He asks, brow furrowed.

Silque’s head snaps up, face almost red. She blinks twice, staring at him. “Sir Python, hello.” 

“Joining the Duma Faithful, Silque?”

Silque gives a cursory glance to the twin statuettes at the candlelit altar. They’re alike in size and texture, with the wood hacked at to get the right angles and shapes. He remembers throwing them deep into some trunk when they were received. She must have dug them out. She smiles, forced and cracking at the edges. 

“Not quite. Just paying respects.” She says, getting to her feet. She wipes dirt off her leggings.

“To the enemy’s God?”

“He still helped to create Valentia.” She says. “Respect is due and deserved.”

“I didn’t realize you were so devout.” He finds himself saying.

“Just a habit. I was raised in a priory.” She says before quickly adding. “Some never fade with time.”

“Did that priory worship the War Father too?” He asks. 

Her smile fades and she shakes her head. “No.” She says.

Tender spot. He frowns a little. Her voice picks up again. “I just found it thrown in a chest and thought it disrespectful.” She says, picking up the Duma carving by the head. So much for respect.

“I didn’t think you had such manners.” Python says. 

“Do not generalize us islanders,” she warns with a thin-lipped smile. “We’re not as simple as you mainlanders think.”

He watches as she turns away and places the Duma carving to the chest. She closes the lid slowly. “No God should be thrown away so easily.”

“Just a God?” He asks. “Funny, seems Mila and Duma can throw away their children so easily.”

Her brow creases a little. “Mila hasn’t been answerin’ prayers for rain or good soil or shit for years now. Who do you think did the chucking?”

“Mortals cannot understand the struggles of the divine.” She says thinly. 

How can she believe so readily in a Goddess who turned her back on her people? Strange, she, a killer by trade, shows more piety than the one who uses white magic and is supposed to be Mila’s ears, eyes, voice. Fate is cruel.

“Just as she may not understand ours. There is a rift between the two, the mortal and immortal can never see eye to eye.”

“Then why are you offerin’ up prayers?”

She looks at him sadly and then half shrugs. “I suppose a part of me wishes that the Mother would listen. So it’s futile hope I cling to.” She says before pointing a finger at him. “And I guess I could ask why you doubt her so quickly when you’re one of her followers.”

His eyes focus on thin, raised scratches on her finger. His gaze narrows, trying to see the injuries better. He peers a little closer and Silque must notice, as her hand quickly folds over the other.

“I have training to go to. Excuse me.” She says quickly, she turns to walk away but he catches her hand. He hears her gasp a little.

“You’re hurt though.” He says, trying to inspect further.

“It is nothing I cannot handle.” She says. 

He turns over her palm; the skin is both soft and rough, untouched and torn. Her hand is hot with pain. Little white scratches run along her palm, fingers and all the way to the tip. They look like they’re scars but her hand is hot, as if trying to fight off infection or illness; wounds that haven’t healed.

“What happened?” He asks, staring at her palm. He’s seen this before, but he can’t grasp exactly what it is. The thin white lines, deep and shallow and hot. 

“It is nothing.” She says. “Merely an exchange.”

“Exchange?” He echoes. She looks as though she can’t handle the idea of speaking about it. Her grey gaze flickers to her shoulder.

The bow.

“Silque, does that thing hurt you?” He asks, his eyes on the blue and white relic. It’s strapped dutifully to her back, just like always. Her eyes stay away from his, roving from the canvas tent to the altar with the Mila carving. She lets out a soft sigh. Wordlessly, she rolls up her sleeves, the marks stopping along her wrists. Her entire hand is hot with unhealed scars. 

Burns. White magic burns. That they are. Python’s had them before—those who can use white magic will occasionally get injured if they use it too often. They come past the points of lightheadedness, nausea and exhaustion, it is the body’s warning that it is time to stop. They scar over eventually but never perfectly heal—a direct contrast to how white magic is on the injured. Mila’s magic leaves no scars, except on the unfortunate casters.

He murmurs a string of curses. “It’s an exchange.” She assures him. “I asked for this.”

“For that thing?” Python snaps, pointing to her back.

“Yes.” She says. “The bow chose me so I wield it. No questions asked.”

“That’s stupid.”

“It is Mila’s will.”

“Mila’s will is for you to give up your life for a bow?”

“A bow which could free the land she made! It is my duty as her child to serve her and answer her every command!” She cries out piteously. “It seems I am the only one of us to understand that.”

He frowns. How can he tell her that he never wanted this path? That he’d rather be far from the front lines, and would live a happy life if he never had to use white magic again? He can’t. Silque wouldn’t understand, she’s too blindly devoted to the Mother, ready to kill in her righteous name.

“I have salve for it. It will heal with time.” She says, rolling down the sleeves.

“You’ll be scarred for the rest of your life.” 

“I am certain I will be scarred in other ways. Do not fret for my sake, Sir Python.” She says thinly and leaves the prayer tent. He stares at the altar, where the Mila carving sits proudly. Outside, he hears her talk to Lukas in such a chipper voice that makes him sick to his stomach. He walks to the altar, ripping the carving from it’s holy place and throwing it into the chest with its sibling. 

Holy or not, Mila can rot for all he cares.


End file.
